


been that way since '95

by jadedpearl



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: :/, Angst, I am unable to move on from the events of it chapter 2, M/M, Sorry guys, everyone lives except stan, featuring the rest of the losers in bit roles, i literally hate typing this but, sand as a metaphor, there is one slur and it is in the summary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-23 00:43:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23369680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadedpearl/pseuds/jadedpearl
Summary: A week (two weeks?) ago, Richie Tozier was just some shitty comedian - but way before that, he snuck into Eddie’s room four nights in a row after they defeated It the first time, just to make sure that Eddie wasn’t having nightmares. The Richie he knew threw rocks at Eddie’s window after he broke his arm, and tossed up a shitty arcade prize he’d won that day when Eddie wouldn’t let him in. The Richie he knew ditched classes with Eddie freshman year when someone scratched FAGS GO TO HELL (THAT MEANS YOU, EDDIE KASPBRAK!!!) in the first floor boy’s bathroom, and took Eddie to see a double horror feature at the Aladdin, and bought him popcorn and Airheads and a large Coke, to share.The Richie he knew wouldn’t be locked up in his shitty hotel room because he was too sad to see Eddie. As if Eddie had actually died.Well. Permanently......Or, Eddie’s hospital stay after the events of It: Chapter 2. Plus, Richie’s Eddie-Kaspbrak-exposure-therapy, unlicensed marriage counselling, and process of remembering.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 9
Kudos: 119





	been that way since '95

**Author's Note:**

> This fic heavily blends the book and movie canon. The characterizations are all from the movie, as are most of the details of how they kill Pennywise. The big thing that I brought over from the book is the way Eddie dies - he loses an arm, and his dying words are pretty different than they are in the movie (iconic as that is) This was also supposed to be 5k, but here we are because I am out of control.

Dying is something Eddie remembers only vaguely. No one’s volunteered any details to him just yet, but he’s pretty sure he gets the gist of what happened. Part of it is definitely unexplainable–wounds caused by a shape shifting, ancient monster probably have qualities untreatable by modern medicine. But he’s relatively sure that his death was mostly caused by hemorrhaging, and that makes a comforting amount of sense. He doesn’t need a doctor to tell him that violently losing an arm results in massive blood loss.

He knows that it’s gone when he wakes up for the first time. At first he thinks his left arm is strapped down too tight to his body–then he realizes that it’s not there at all, and what he’s feeling is the layers of gauze wound tightly around his chest. 

He’s starting to remember–his inhaler, his arm, Bev cradling him–and then he sees Richie, leaned forward and taking up half of his vision. 

“Eds?” Richie says, sounding watery. “Eddie?” 

The similarities between this moment and the last time Eddie saw Richie are undeniable. Eddie goes to open his mouth to speak but finds that he can’t. He glances around weakly. Everything is muffled, like there are cotton balls stuffed in his ears. Richie leans back out of Eddie’s view, and Eddie can faintly hear a beeping. Richie’s calling a nurse or a doctor or something, and then he’s the last thing Eddie sees before he drifts off again. 

When he wakes up again the room is more populated. Pretty much everyone is there–well, everyone except Stan. The rest of the Losers are around the bed in a loose semi circle, and his absence is most notable when they’re all together. 

Bill notices that he’s awake first. He’s at the foot of the bed, reading a book. He sets it aside quickly and says, “Guys–Eddie’s–” 

The rest of them look up, and then they’re crowding around him. Richie is to Eddie’s left, and his hand hovers over Eddie’s shoulder before quickly drawing back. 

Eddie tries to say, “Did we–”, but his tongue feels about twice the size it should be, and the wound in his cheek pulls uncomfortably. Mike’s hand squeezes around his shoulders anyway. 

“Yeah,” he says, “We got the bitch.” 

Since Mike called him–how many days ago, now?–the brief moments of happiness Eddie’s had–seeing everyone again, finding the clubhouse, remembering the  _ good  _ things–he’s felt through the steel clench of fear around his heart. 

For the first time, maybe ever, he feels something like exhilaration, unfettered by primal fear. A laugh bubbles out of him, and then he winces. There’s definitely something fucked with his back. Or his ribs. Or both. 

Ben stands. “I’ll get Dr. Lee,” he says, squeezing Bev’s shoulder before he leaves the room. 

“Guys,” Eddie says, once Ben is gone. He knows that he only has so much time before someone else gets here, someone who’s not exactly filled in on the whole demon-clown-from-space thing. “I died. I remember that, I think. So…”

His eyes dart to Richie on their own volition. Richie’s mouth twists, and Eddie quickly looks away. He’s always been uncomfortable when people cry, and he’s sure–the way he’s been so inexplicably sure about a lot of things these past few days–that Richie is making the face he always does, right before the waterworks.

Bev looks to Bill. “We don’t really know,” he says. “We were able to get you out before the house collapsed, Mike called an ambulance, and…” he shrugs, helpless. “They were able to revive you on the ride over. Ben is a universal donor, so they did an emergency transfusion.” 

“How’d you get me out?” Eddie asks, twitching the fingers on his right hand. The cast is already itching. He’s hit by another twinge of deja vu – same hospital, same broken arm, just twenty seven years ago. The longer he’s awake, the more he’s noticing that the Derry Home Hospital hasn’t changed much since the 80s, and makes a note to check if they’re up to health code, 

Richie clears his throat and says, “We uh, strapped you to a skateboard. Wheeled you out.” 

Bev lightly hits him on the arm with the back of her hand, and Richie makes the universal  _ Whaaaat? _ face at her. “Mike did most of the heavy lifting,” she supplies helpfully.

“Cool,” Eddie says. “You were always my favorite.” 

Richie wipes at his nose. “I wanted to carry you bridal style, but Mike had to be a hero.”

“I’m okay with that,” Eddie yawns. “Sorry guys, but I’m wiped out. Can I sleep now?” 

Bev gingerly reaches across him to curl her hand around his. The cast makes it clumsy, but her hands are warm. “Just stay awake for a little while longer, honey. The doctor asked us to let her know when you woke up.” 

He stays awake while the nurse checks his vitals, and Dr. Lee, a young woman with dark hair and impressively strong eyebrows, checks his chart and explains everything that’s wrong with him. Missing left arm, check. Broken right arm, laceration in his cheek (thank you, Bowers). He was right about his spine–he’s fractured his vertebrae in two places, and broken three ribs. And he’s minorly concussed. 

If Eddie thinks about his left arm–or lack thereof–he’s going to have a full blown panic attack regardless of the serious pain medications they must have him on. When he ignores it resolutely, though, he can’t help but feel like he got off fairly easy. They’ve cleaned up the amputation site, and set his arm properly. His back injury is relatively minor–he remembers being thrown, and knows that he could have been fully paralyzed. One of his broken ribs could have punctured a lung. And he got away with minor head wounds. 

He thinks it would be crass, though, to bring that up in this company. Richie, for one, has retreated from his side, and is turned half away and silently crying. 

So instead of saying any of that, Eddie nods, waits for Dr. Lee to leave the room, and then drifts off, Bev’s hand in his, and the rest of the Losers around him like a loose but impenetrable shield. 

  
  


When they were kids, the seven of them had been pretty much inseparable. It had been that way even before the clown, but afterwards, they never strayed towards other friends. It was never the seven of them again, though–even before Bev moved, and then Bill, then Ben, and finally Richie, they could never quite manage to all be in the same place at the same time. Eddie didn’t really notice it, though, until Bill moved around sophomore year. 

Richie had taken Bill’s move particularly badly. Before Richie-and-Eddie, it had really been Richie-and-Bill. But after his parents sold the house and Bill stopped calling, Richie and Eddie spent more time alone than they had before. And then, just a year later, Eddie had been left behind for a fourth time. At that point, he and Mike and Stan knew that something was happening. Or rather, they began to talk about it with each other. Eddie had suspected something was off ever since Bill confided in them that Bev had never returned any of his letters. 

When Eddie had walked into the Jade of the Orient, he hadn’t expected things to just go back to how things were, because he hadn’t remembered what that looked like. Now that it’s all over, though, he’s looking forward to spending more time with everyone–Richie especially. Eddie’s still got double vision between who everyone was, and who they are now, but Richie was his best friend, even if it’s been over twenty years since they saw each other. 

The only problem is that Richie’s been weirdly absent. Eddie’s still drifting in and out of sleep, but he’s never alone when he wakes up. Sometimes it’s Bev, oftentimes Mike. They all take shifts. Except for Richie. Eddie hasn’t seen him since they were all together. . 

Mike sighs when Eddie asks him about it. “He’s not taking it very well,” he says wearily. 

Eddie blinks. “What part of it?” The arm? The clown? Life? 

“He’s having trouble...seeing you like this, I think. I don’t know. He’s mostly locked himself in his room at the Townhouse. I tried to get him to stay with me–mostly so I could make sure he’s eating and showering–but he’s pretty adamant.”

“Oh.” Eddie flexes his fingers. “I thought maybe he’d left.” 

“I mean, he’s planning on coming here. At some point.” Mike frowns. “I think he is. Bill’s been spending a lot of time with him, you know.” 

“Yeah, they were always close,” Eddie allows. He quiet for a minute before he feels like he’s going to explode. “Okay, am I crazy, or is that bullshit, though?” 

Mike raises an eyebrow, and Eddie continues. “I mean, I had my arm ripped off. And my spine was almost broken. So I came really close to having, like, no functional limbs. And he’s just–”

Eddie can’t really articulate why this bothers him so much without stopping just short of explaining that a week (two weeks?) ago, Richie Tozier was just some shitty comedian–but way before that, he snuck into Eddie’s room four nights in a row after they defeated It the first time, just to make sure that Eddie wasn’t having nightmares. The Richie he knew threw rocks at Eddie’s window after he broke his arm, and tossed up a shitty arcade prize he’d won that day when Eddie wouldn’t let him in. The Richie he knew ditched classes with Eddie freshman year when someone scratched  _ FAGS GO TO HELL (THAT MEANS  _ _ YOU _ _ , EDDIE KASPBRAK!!!)  _ in the first floor boy’s bathroom, and took Eddie to see a double horror feature at the Aladdin, and bought him popcorn and Airheads and a large Coke, to share. 

The Richie he knew wouldn’t be locked up in his shitty hotel room because he was too  _ sad  _ to see Eddie. As if Eddie had actually died. 

Well. Permanently. 

Mike says, “I’ll try to talk to him. But he hasn’t exactly been listening to me, these past few weeks.” 

“Just–” Eddie gestures impatiently. “Just, get Bill to talk to him. Or tell him–” Edddie frowns, thinking of the best, least embarrassing way to say it. 

Fuck it. “Could you just tell him that I want to see him? And that it’s fucking weird that he’s not here, right now. He of all people should….” 

Thankfully, Mike doesn’t ask  _ What? Should what?  _ And Eddie’s never been so grateful to have him back. 

  
  


Maybe it works, because the next day, Bill shows up with Richie, who makes a beeline for the TV in Eddie’s room. 

“Does this thing play Full House?” 

“You put that on and I won’t forgive you,” Eddie warns. 

Richie, across the room, turns around and raises a leering eyebrow at Eddie. “Funny, that’s what your mom said, Eddie. I said, are you sure, Mrs, K, I mean, what if? And she said–”

“Beep beep, Richie,” Bill says, at the same time Eddie says, “Can it, Tozier.” 

“Aye aye, Kaspbrak. Richie saluts, but it doesn’t escape Eddie when Bill turns to Eddie, Richie hangs back by the TV, whistling tunelessly. 

Over the past few days, Eddie’s hasn’t been able to stay awake long enough to have full conversations with anyone. He’s been staying awake longer and longer, though. Bill, probably as a result of walking on eggshells around his parents for most of his adolescence, has an excellent bedside manner. He fills Eddie in on the past week, asks what he’s been eating, and delicately does not bring up the fact that Eddie is down a limb. 

It’s the worst, when Richie is standing right there. “Sleeping here is awful,” Eddie gripes, to try and counteract how nice Bill is being. “I miss my Tempurpedic. If I don’t leave here with back problems it’s only because the shitty mattress will have balanced out the whole fractured spine thing.” 

“Are you having nightmares?” Bill asks, continuing to side step any mention of Eddie’s physical condition. 

Eddie has to think about it. Before all of this, he never dreamed, the whole of his adult life–or at least, if he did, he never remembered in the morning. There were times he’d wake up, heart pounding, cold with sweat, groping for his inhaler, but he could never place exactly what it was that had thrown him in such a panic. 

He could live with that without too much anxiety. He always forgot about it by breakfast. But there were times that he’d wake up in the middle of the night, usually around four in the morning, when Myra was dead asleep next to him. Those dreams were sweet, and Eddie would consider writing them down. But he was always sure that there was no way he could forget, that this time he would remember. 

He never did. In the morning it would be gone, and this bothered him more than the nightmares. 

The dreams he’s had in the hospital have been kind of like that. Less of any coherent plot, or recreation of an event; more like he’s trying desperately trying to remember something while asleep. 

It’s weird, but Eddie’s sure that when he was dying, he was in that same lucid half-place–everything unimportant washed out of him, plain truths revealed like glass bottles, half submerged in sand at low tide. Trying to dig something out of the silt–but he never quite got there. 

Eddie can barely remember, but–he’d been trying to tell Richie something. Looking at Richie now, reading a pamphlet on prostate cancer and still very much ten feet away from Eddie, he’s sure of it. 

“No,” he finally says, “No nightmares,” although that probably has more to do with the dihydrocodeine than his response to suddenly-remembered-residual-trauma plus new-and-super-fresh-trauma. “Are  _ you _ sleeping okay?”

“Well enough, I guess. Audra’s still in England, so I’ve been staying up late to FaceTime her. It’s been throwing off my schedule a little, but,” Bill shrugs. “Can’t complain.” 

Eddie doesn’t have to ask Richie to know that he hasn’t been sleeping. Even if Mike hadn’t told him, Eddie can see it. He looks like shit. 

“Maybe I can get whatever they have you on,” Richie says, joining the conversation for the first time. He’s wandered closer, and is standing at the foot of the bed. “You look fresh as a daisy, Eduardo.” 

“You still can’t call me that,” Eddie says. “And I’m not sharing my opioids, fuck off and get your own.” 

“I’ve been trying for years,” Richie shrugs. “Weed is just cheaper. Want some?” 

“Yeah, my bruised lungs say no,” Eddie says, not hiding the way he’s scanning Richie up and down. It’s not the first time Richie has affected an air of flippancy to hide what’s really going on. It doesn’t escape Eddie that his shirt is buttoned wrong.

“So,” Richie says, sitting down, “How’s, uh,” he gestures at Eddie. 

“How do you think I’m doing?” Eddie asks, irritated. Not so much at the question as at Richie. “I can’t even sign my own insurance papers. You know my mom tried to train me out of being left handed?” 

Bill laughs. “You’re kidding.” 

“Yeah, I wish. She was so pissed when I broke my right arm, back then. You know – besides, the obvious reasons. But I had no choice but to write with my left. Anyway, I’m forty fucking years old and I have to learn how to write again.” 

Richie, to Eddie’s horror, sniffles. Eddie shoots a look to Bill, who looks awkwardly down at his hands. 

_ So this is what Mike meant.  _ Eddie lifts his cast in Richie’s direction and does his best to point. “Don’t fucking cry, man. Don’t fucking do it. I really can’t handle that, right now.” 

He expects Richie to banter back, or even attempt it. He just stands instead, chair legs scraping against the floor. “I’m sorry,” he says wetly. “I gotta, uh.” And then he leaves the room. 

Eddie watches him leave, and then turns to Bill, incredulously. “Jesus.”

“Yeah,” Bill says. “I think–I don’t think he’s cried, in like, twenty years. It’s just…” He trails off, and shrugs helplessly. “You really scared him.” 

Eddie doesn’t have anything to say to that. Bill sighs. “Look, I’m gonna check on him. I’ll be back.” 

Eddie watches infomercials until Bill comes back in the room. “Richie’s headed back to the Townhouse. On foot.” 

“Did he fucking run away?” Eddie asks, disbelieving. “When was the last time he did cardio? Bill, he’s gonna die of a heart attack out there!” 

“Let me guess, you have a statistic for white male comedians over thirty five,” Bill says drily. 

“Close enough,” Eddie says. “The numbers are not good. Trust Richie to survive a collapsing house and then get hit by a car.” 

“Nah,” Bill says. “Richie’s gonna die when someone throws something too hard at him from the audience. It’s the only way he’d want it.” 

“He’ll die because he’ll give me a reason to kill him,” Eddie says darkly, and doesn’t join Bill when he laughs. 

  
  


Over the next few days, Richie starts visiting more, but always with someone else, and he never makes it all the way through without slipping out of the hospital room to grab something from his car, get a coffee, call his manager, or, once, suddenly remember that he’d left his phone in his hotel room. 

It has Eddie furious. When Ben gets up to use the bathroom, Eddie wastes no time turning to Richie, who’s looking at the door like he’s planning to make a break for it any second. 

“Was I supposed to not notice that we apparently need a chaperone to be in the same room together?” 

Richie coughs. “Uh, no?” 

Eddie looks down at his lap, twisting his bedsheets in his hand. He knows he’s frowning when he says, “Look, I know I’m not–the  _ easiest _ , to be around right now. And I get it if you just–” He gestures with his arm. “Whatever, but it’s really fucking stupid that I didn’t see you for twenty seven years because of some evil magic shit, and now I can’t see you because you puss out everytime we’re in the same room together.” 

Richie rubs his jaw and chuckles weakly. “You just go for the throat, huh Eds? What happened to good old fashioned bullshitting around?” 

“Since I grew up,” Eddie says sharply. “I mean it, Richie.” 

Richie puts his hands on his hips and makes a show of thinking out loud. “Hm, sorry, I think I missed that one. Growing up? Never heard of her.” 

“You need a therapist,” Eddie says flatly, and Richie laughs for the first time in days. 

“Yeah? What would I say?” He gestures up and down at himself, as if to say  _ I’m a mess! See? The only way I’ve grown up is that I started buttoning up my shirts once I hit thirty five!  _

“That’s not my business,” Eddie says. “But it should be someone’s.” 

“I love this,” Richie says. “Does Eddie want entertainment? No, just a New York Times subscription and the opportunity to roast me for sport.” 

“Yeah, it’s real fuckin’ entertaining. Don’t you have a laptop, or something? I can’t watch anything in here and I’m losing my fucking mind. It’s bad enough that I can’t exercise. My FitBit is gonna be so fucked up.” 

“Pretty sure your FitBit is,” Richie starts to say, and then stops, looking a little green. 

“What? At the bottom of a shit hole, along with the rest of my arm? Jesus, Rich.” 

“I’m sorry,” Richie gets out. “That was so–” 

Eddie can’t take this anymore. “Richie. Look at me. It’s fucking  _ gone. _ It’s not gonna grow back if you cry enough, or whatever the fuck you think you’re doing.” 

“Eddie–” Richie says wetly. 

Eddie throws his arm up. “And this! You never even fight back anymore, you just get sad!” 

“Eddie, you died in my arms,” Richie says lightly, but his voice breaks. “I’m allowed to be a little fucked up, if that’s okay with you.”

“No, I didn’t,” Eddie snaps.  _ I died alone,  _ goes unsaid, because even he’s not that cruel. “And that’s not your fucking fault. It’s just,” he drops his arm back to his lap. “Man, you’re acting like I’m gone. And I’m right in front of you. Okay?” 

“You don’t–” Richie says, and Eddie interrupts him again. 

“Yes, I do– _ yes _ , Richie, I do. I mean, when you were in the deadlights....” he trails off, because he’s not ready to tell Richie what that was like, or if he even should. It had been bad enough to see Bev like that, all those years ago. Seeing Richie, it was–

Getting Richie back–when he hadn’t even realized he was missing, for twenty seven years–it had made Eddie stupid. Not brave stupid, just running headlong into danger stupid. They weren’t kids anymore, and Eddie was pretty sure Richie wouldn’t want a kiss from him. So he’d done the next best thing, and charged It. 

Eddie clears his throat. “I mean–that’s when I…” He shrugs his shoulder, the one that’s healing slowly, and ignores the twinge of pain. “The last time you saw me, I was dead? The last time I saw you, I wasn’t sure you were gonna make it. So I–you’re my best friend, Rich, and you’re making it really fucking hard to make sure you’re okay.” 

Richie works his jaw back and forth. “Yeah–okay, yeah. I was…” he huffs a self deprecating laugh. “I was thinking, like, maybe I’d just drop off the face of the Earth until I could magically be in the same room as you and not lose my shit. I forgot that you were part of the equation, I guess, and you’re a stubborn motherfucker.” 

“I see you haven’t changed,” Eddie says drily. “You have such a way of making everything about you.” 

Richie clears his throat. “See, there’s the thing, I never actually do. I only make it  _ look  _ like I do, so that, you know.” 

Eddie doesn’t know what he means, but he says, “I guess it’s working. I still think you’re a selfish asshole.” 

Richie flashes a toothy grin up at him. Eddie realises, all at once, that he hasn’t seen Richie smile like this since the Jade at the Orient, when he said,  _ I’m happy,,I’m really happy to be back here with you guys.  _

There was the smile down in the cistern, but that was different. That smile was warm, and Eddie still thinks on it like a cup of coffee that’s just a little too hot to drink. Like it’ll burn him if he picks it up too soon, but he wants the warmth. 

Richie clears his throat, and Eddie looks over to see him picking at his fingernails. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse. “When we carried you out of there–I mean, you were so small.” He looks up at Eddie, and smiles a little. “Like, you’re small already, but now you’re just….itty bitty. I feel like I could drop you in my shirt pocket.” 

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Har har. Dick. Your shirts aren’t nice enough to have pockets.” 

Richie looks down at his shirt. It’s got to be Mike’s, or Richie bought it in town, because there’s a large cartoon beaver on the front, with the words  _ Derry Trapping Outpost, Est. 1787.  _ He looks back up with a faint smile. “What was that? Your voice is so high my ears can’t really register it anymore.” 

“Shut the fuck up. You’re not going to think it’s so funny when I get better at one armed push ups.” 

Richie looks delighted. “ _ Better _ ? Were you already doing them?”

Eddie sighs. “Not usually. Push ups hurt my wrists anyway. I’d rather just lift weights, or do planks.”

Richie gapes at him. “Who  _ are  _ you? What are you hiding under that hospital gown?” He makes as if to lift the hem of it, but Eddie slaps his hand away. He’s still fully nude under there, and not ready for  _ that  _ with Richie.

He feels his cheeks redden. “I’m not  _ hiding  _ anything, it’s just–you should be exercising, especially when you get older!” 

Richie leans his chair back on two legs and pats his stomach. “Sorry, I love pizza too much. And burritos. And take out.” 

“I’d say LA has corrupted you, but you were always like this,” Eddie says, eyeing the way the t-shirt is stretching across Richie’s belly and shoulders. 

“If anything, LA has limited the amount of carbs I eat,” Richie says. “At a certain point it’s just easier to find a pizza with a cauliflower crust than a regular one.” 

“I never understood that,” Eddie says. “I can’t eat a shit ton of food, but I don’t try to substitute it with something that’s never going to be the same.” 

“First of all, your food thing is bullshit,” Richie says, the legs of the chair slamming back on the ground. He leans forward and says, seriously and with a lot of eye contact, “And Eddie, junk food vegans are people too.” 

  
  


Richie clearly hasn’t gotten over whatever he needs to get over concerning Eddie’s physical state, but things do get better after that. Against his better judgement, Eddie has also given him explicit permission to joke about it, in the hopes that he’ll stop being so fucking weird.

“It’s such a shame that  _ you’re  _ the one with only one arm,” Richie says wistfully. “You’re never gonna tap into anything comedic about it.” 

“Sorry I’m not going to ‘put a spin on it,’ Rich.” Eddie does aggressive air quotes. Well, as best he can with one hand. 

“I think everyone would rather you didn’t,” Bev agrees. Her presence is precious and rare. She’s been tied up in phone calls most of the time, parlaying with her lawyer about the division of her and her ex’s fashion line. Eddie’s been following her saga with a keen interest. Not that he’s planning on divorcing Myra. He’s just curious about the process. That, and he and Richie have privately made loose plans to take a hit out on Tom if things don’t turn out like they should for Bev. 

“I think everyone would also rather you didn’t drink so much coffee,” Eddie adds, as Richie goes to take a sip of his cup. 

“Wha–it calms me down!” Richie says defensively. 

Eddie and Bev exchange a look. “Whatever,” she says, “Just don’t bother me if you stay up all night.” 

“That’s what I told Eddie’s mom, but she’s a voracious woman,” Richie says, setting the cup down. Eddie ignores him until he starts messing with the remote for Eddie’s bed and changing the inclination of his mattress. 

“Fucking  _ ow, _ ” Eddie says, trying to swipe the remote and failing. “If you don’t stop,  _ I’m  _ gonna be the one staying up, and then  _ you’ll _ sleep forever because I’ll fucking kill you.”

“See how mean he is?” Richie says, but stops. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. Sleep and me are taking a break. She said, Richie, you’re great, but you’re just not what I  _ need _ right now.” 

Bev looks at him, concerned. “Oh. Is it…?” 

“Yup,” Richie says, popping the ‘p’. “It’s making the choice between going to bed and staying up pretty fuckin’ easy.”

They’re talking about Richie’s dream. Eddie’s never heard details, and no one’s told him outright what’s really happening. It took awhile for him to even realize that Richie doesn’t remember being in the deadlights. Like, at all. 

“Wait, so,” Eddie says slowly, still trying to figure out what that means, because everyone’s just reading between the lines all of a sudden.  _ He  _ remembers Richie in the deadlights. When Eddie first saw him there, limp and floating, he hadn’t been thinking. Just rushed forward with that fence post. To this day he’ll never know where he got the bravery and stupidity to get that close to Pennywise. It had been leaning down to leer at that point, and Eddie had gotten close enough to shove his makeshift lance into Its neck. 

Richie had dropped to the floor, and Eddie had turned, triumphant, and. Well. That was when he had lost his arm, and subsequently fractured his spine after being thrown thirty feet. 

Bev and Richie are looking at him, waiting for him to hurry the hell up and finish his thought. “...you don’t remember calling it a sloppy bitch?”

Bev laughs. Richie looks good naturedly pained. “Okay, okay,” Eddie says, “Seriously, though, what do you remember?” 

“You,” Richie says, and then winces. “I mean, I woke up on the floor. I hit my head, and then I…” he trails off, coughs, and starts again. “You pretty much went flying past me, so I went to you, and, you know. I didn’t even know I was ever in the deadlights until–” he glances over at Bev, who rubs a hand on his knee. “We were talking about this, uh, weird dream I had. Only I don’t remember when I had it so…” 

“We think that’s what Richie saw in the deadlights,” Bev says. “At least as best I can guess.” 

“Oh,” Eddie says. He’s been through his share of trauma–non consensual amputation, being vomited on repeatedly by an eldritch space monster, et cetera–but the deadlights are kind of a Bev-and-Richie thing. None of the others really get it, so they don’t push it. “What did you see?” 

Bev looks at Richie pointedly. Richie looks at the ceiling and sighs expressively. “Oh, that. It’s not really important.” 

Eddie furrows his eyebrows. “Don’t be a dickhead, it obviously is. Just tell Bev so she can help you or whatever.” 

“That’s not very supportive of you, Eddie. Anyone ever tell you your bedside manner is terrible?” 

“Bedside–I’m the one in bed!” 

Bev drops her head in her hands. “Think you two could work on some healthy coping mechanisms any time soon?” 

“What’s unhealthy about this!” Richie protests. 

Bev lifts her head, and shrugs with a wry smile on her face. “Fair enough.”

“You know,” Eddie says slowly, “I kind of had a weird dream. I mean,” he adds, when Bev and Richie instantly look at him, concerned. “Not like that. It wasn’t bad. It was when I was...you know.” 

Bev puts a hand on his knee. “Honey…” 

“It wasn’t bad,” Eddie insists, and he’s still trying to grasp it. Less of a coherent thought; more of a feeling. He was on the tip of  _ something _ , but now it’s gone. He’s chasing its coattails with no luck. 

Richie clears his throat. “There was, uh. I think you were trying to tell me something but you, uh, never finished.” 

Eddie frowns, and tries to look at Richie, but he won’t meet his gaze, fiddling with his turned off phone in his hand, instead. “I can’t remember,” he says, and it feels like giving ground, although he doesn’t know why. Bev shoots Richie a look.

“Well,” Richie says, after a pause, “I’m gonna–” 

“ _ Not  _ more coffee,” Bev groans, and Richie puts his hands up. 

“Just water. You want anything, Eds?” 

“Don’t call me that,” Eddie says absently. If he could just  _ remember _ –

“Eddie,” Bev says, and his gaze snaps to her. “You want anything from the vending machine?” 

“No thanks, it’s all loaded with sugar.” 

“That’s  _ the  _ most boring answer in the world, but I’m also pretty sure that if we give him any uppers he’s gonna vibrate through the ceiling.” 

“I can hear you,” Eddie says, and Richie just laughs and leaves the room. 

  
  


Eddie’s been calling Myra every couple of days, since he regained the motor skills to punch a number into a phone.  _ His  _ cell phone is somewhere at the bottom of the Derry Sewer system, so he’s been using whoever's is around. He has to keep switching phones, though, because each of the Losers quietly tell him that Myra has been calling them incessantly, and they’re going to block her number, okay Eddie? 

Eddie’s been able to keep her away from Derry so far, though. Mostly because he still hasn’t let her know exactly where he is. (It’s a big reason why he can’t just use the hospital's phone). She’s been mollified with his constant updates, promises to be home soon, assurances that any day now, he will have someone pick up a new phone for him. 

For their part, the Losers don’t say anything about it, just give each other meaningful looks when they think Eddie isn’t looking. He does see, though. Which is such bullshit, because he’s pretty sure Bill’s marriage is shaky and barely standing, and Beverly hit her husband with a restraining order as soon as her friend from Chicago faxed over her legal documents. Eddie’s pretty sure they don’t have a) any understanding of his marriage, and b) and grounds to stand on. Regardless, they all have an unspoken agreement to Not Talk About It. 

Except Richie. He’s not outwardly outspoken against her, but he’s made it clear that he doesn’t like her. At least, he seems convinced that Eddie’s unhappy. Which he’s not. He’s not going to say his marriage is  _ joyful _ , exactly, but he’s not not happy. 

“Okay, so, what  _ do _ you like back home?” Richie asks one day, feet up on the bed and flipping through a trashy magazine he’d picked up at WalMart. Eddie had made sure he’d taken shoes off, and his socks are mismatched. One striped, the other with tiny dinosaurs. The left sock has a hole in it, and Richie’s big toe pokes through. Eddie’s reading the New York Times on Mike’s iPad. 

“I had this car,” Eddie says, thinking about it. “I was restoring it.” 

“Had? What happened to it?” 

Eddie shrugs. “Myra wanted to buy a second home in Long Island. Even with my promotion, I didn’t want to take out a loan that big. So we sold it.” 

Richie looks up from the magazine. “She wanted a second home? In New York? What for? What’s your tax bracket, anyway?” 

“I wanted the second house, too,” Eddie says defensively. “In case we have kids, we don’t want to raise them in the city.” 

“Back up–kids?” Richie only looks more incredulous. “Do you even want kids?”

“Maybe,” Eddie says. (No.) “I mean, yes.” (Not with Myra, anyway.) “We’ve had...fertility issues, anyway.”

“That doesn’t sound like a yes,” Richie says dubiously. “And why would you want to move to the suburbs?” 

“Oh, you know,” Eddie says, feeling more and more like he’s talking to a work acquaintance. Just saying bullshit that he doesn’t really mean. “Better schools….a yard….New York isn’t all that, you know. I bet you only come through on tours so…” 

Then again, he doesn’t know. Maybe Richie has lived in New York. He wants to know everything about Richie’s past twenty seven years, but doesn’t know how to ask. 

“No, Eddie,” Richie says, smiling wryly. “You like New York. I know you do.” 

Eddie stares at him. He  _ does _ like New York. He likes how fast everything is, like the whole city is operating at his speed. He wishes it were cleaner, sure, but he’s always been jumpy and on edge and a little rude. Just like the city.

It’s obvious in a way, but Eddie feels uncomfortable in the way that he has been since coming back to Derry, at all the little reminders that people really  _ know  _ him, in the way that no one has known him since he was seventeen. 

Richie’s still looking at him expectantly, so Eddie clears his throat. “Yeah, well. It’s partially financial. I only invest my personal money in stocks; we invest as a couple in real estate. It’s more stable.” 

Richie puffs up his cheeks and sighs. ”It’s harder to fucking divy up as an asset, is what it is. You have separate finances?”

“No,” Eddie says, getting irritated now. “We have a joint checking. I just have my own side account, for like, my personal stuff. Like the stocks.” 

“What are you investing in? PornHub? ” 

Eddie chokes. “ _ No, _ ” he hisses. “It’s not weird, Richie. Everyone should have multiple accounts. Myra works, she has one too.” 

Richie doesn’t look convinced. “Uh huh. Do you even like Long Island?” 

“Yes,” Eddie says. “We have a double garage.” 

Richie throws his hands up. “For what? She made you sell your fucking–Herbie!” 

“Okay, first of all, it wasn’t a  _ VW, _ ” Eddie says, getting ready to point in Richie’s face. “And second of all, I don’t want to talk about it anymore. Everytime my marriage gets brought up all we do is fucking fight about it.” 

“Okay,” Richie says, dropping his hands. “We won’t talk about it anymore.” He pauses. “What kind of car was it? Or is that too sensitive a topic.” 

Eddie sighs. “A 1968 Cadillac Deville.” It stings to talk about. 

Richie whistles low. “You sure you don’t want a divorce? You could pick up a secretary.” 

Eddie rolls up his newspaper, and Richie does a fun show of pretending that Eddie really could get up and swat at him with it, or pounce and straddle him, the way they did when they were kids. 

  
  


“Everyone’s postponing their plans until you can walk,” Richie confides in him, one day, when it’s just the two of them. 

“That seems arbitrary,” Eddie says. 

“Yeah, well.” Richie leans over, sorting through the assorted Sharpies on the bed. The Losers are taking turns writing on Eddie’s cast, since they didn’t get to do it in ’89. “You could be here for like a month. Or two. Bill has to fix his marriage at some point, Mike would kill–” his eyes cut up to Eddie and he grins “–or perform a miracle to get out of here, and Bev and Ben are probably desperate to bone on a mattress from this century–so.” 

“Gross,” Eddie says, and then, “Bev and Ben? I thought…” The intricacies of the Bev and Bill drama have always eluded him. He’s not so much as surprised that Ben is in the mix–God knows half of the Losers were in love with her in some form or another–but that Bev and Bill managed to extricate themselves from each other at all. 

“Yeah. Who woulda thought, right?” Richie finally picks a red marker. “I’m happy for them, though.  _ Someone  _ deserves to get laid at the end of all this.” Richie uncaps the sharpie in his hand, shoves the cap in between his lips, and starts to etch something on Eddie’s cast, right under the crook of his elbow. Eddie wrinkles his nose down at him, but then they’re quiet for a minute, except for the scratch of the marker over the plaster. 

“Did you like anyone like that, when we were young?” he hears himself ask. He almost surprises himself, but it follows, to a certain degree. It’s like Bev and Bill and Ben have always had their childhood loves inside each other, even when they couldn’t remember. And now that Bev and Ben are together….it’s safe to say that what they have isn’t anything like Eddie’s own relationship with Myra. 

It certainly surprises Richie, who stops, his marker skidding an inch to the left. It catches Eddie’s skin, leaving a red mark. He frowns down at it. “Hey, watch it. What are you working on, anyway, the fucking Mona Lisa?” 

Richie jerks his head up. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I–” Eddie looks down. Richie is staring up at him, marker cap still in his mouth. “That’s disgusting.” 

“What, did you?” Richie asks around the cap, but he drops it into his hand and caps the marker. His hands seem unsteady.

Eddie shakes his head, but he’s not sure. “I don’t think so,” he says absently. There’s that thing again, like his mind is still trying to wrap around something it doesn’t know the shape of. 

Richie snaps his fingers in Eddie’s face. “Hey, Eduardo, you there?”

“I’m not your fucking dog.” Eddie bats his hand away.

“Yeah, but you’re being really fucking weird.” Richie sticks the marker cap on the end of the Sharpie and leans back over the cast. “Don’t worry, I’m not a romantic like Ben. I don’t have any yearbook signatures to burn.” 

Eddie’s...weirdly disappointed. “What are you drawing, anyway?” he asks. He can’t see past Richie’s hair. 

“Hold on.” Richie leans back. “It’s your car.” 

“That is not a Cadillac,” Eddie says. It’s good, though. There’s even some hatch marked shading. 

“Fine. It’s a 1990 Miata. With the lights up.” 

“What the fuck?” Eddie squints at it. “When the fuck did you learn to draw?”

“I can’t, just these. I had one for a couple of years. No shocks, driving it was like being in a paint mixer. You like it, right?” 

“Sure,” Eddie says, leaning back again. Richie bends back over to draw a road underneath the car’s tires, and Eddie vaguely laments, in a way he hasn’t before, the loss of his left arm; if only so he could pet Richie’s hair while he works.

It’s a strange thought, but not entirely unwelcome in the moment. Eddie tries to shake it off, but he can’t ignore the swoop in his chest. It’s almost like the feeling of one of his asthma attacks, but he takes a deep breath, and it dissipates. 

  
  


He should have known that Richie wouldn’t drop it for long. It’s been a week, and Eddie’s going to have to actually buy a cell phone soon. The day before Mike buys him one in town, Eddie finally asks to borrow Richie’s. “I have to call Myra.” 

A funny look passes over Richie’s face. “Why?” 

Eddie raises his eyebrows. “Why? Because I promised I would, that’s why. I have to call her and let her know how I am.” 

“You could just...not.” 

Eddie stares. “You’re joking, right? That’s not fair to her. At all.” 

Richie won’t meet his eyes. “What’s fair? You’re missing an arm, that’s not fair.” 

“I can’t believe you’re being like this,” Eddie says. “Look, are you gonna let me borrow your cell phone?” 

“She’s gonna come here, eventually,” Richie says petulantly. “You should just call her from the room’s phone.”

Eddie thrusts his hand out. He’s tipping from irritation into anger, quickly. “Yeah, no shit, asshole. I get that you don’t get marriage, or that you don’t really like her, or whatever, but I can’t just disappear for a month. She’d file a missing person report, or hurt herself, or something, and–”

“Woah, woah, woah, hurt herself?” Richie holds his phone out of reach, like Eddie’s gonna be hopping up out of the bed to come grab it. “Is that something she does?” 

“Yes,” Eddie says impatiently. “I mean, no. Not like that. It doesn’t matter. Give it to me.” 

“Fine,” Richie says, because he’s always wanted to have the last word. He hands the phone to Eddie. The lock screen is Richie at Disneyland, wearing a shirt that says  _ Daddy’s Little Girl!  _ on it in sparkly letters. The G in “Girl” has a pair of mouse ears on it. 

Eddie wrinkles his nose in distaste.“They sell shirts like that at Disneyland?” 

“Not anymore,” Richie says, leaning over to tap in the passcode. “I’m gonna–get a coffee, or something. Want something?” 

Eddie’s already punching in Myra’s phone number. “No thanks,” he says to the phone screen, and Richie slumps away. 

It’s not that he even particularly  _ wants  _ to call her. He doesn’t  _ want  _ to do a lot of the things he’s supposed to these days. 

On the other hand, there’s a massive want that’s been rising in him since he got back to Derry. He thought it was seeing his friends again, and tried to leave it at that. But he still has that unsatisfied feeling of being unable to place something, like getting the answer to a problem you couldn’t guess. The feeling is still there, which means he hasn’t satisfied it yet. Whatever it is. 

But marriage–it’s not always about want. Or lack thereof. Eight years ago, Eddie stood up in front of Myra’s family (his mother boycotted, along with her sisters. She died four months later.) and made some promises. And he’s a creature of habit. 

When Richie comes back after twenty minutes–way longer than it takes to get coffee, Eddie’s already hung up on her. Or rather, his call is dropped. Because the hospital has terrible service. No matter who’s phone he’s borrowing. 

“Myra isn’t coming down,” Eddie says shortly, handing the phone back to Richie. “I told her I had a surgery coming up and any additional stress would cause complications. That should buy us a few days.” 

Richie sets his near empty coffee cup on Eddie’s bedside table. “You’re not scheduled for any more surgeries.” 

“Yeah, keep up,” Eddie says. “Obviously, she can’t visit if there are further complications. So that’s like a week.” 

Richie sits, looking at him like he’s just grown his arm back. 

“What? What.” Eddie feels defensive, all of a sudden, even though this is how he  _ has  _ to deal with Myra. “It’s  _ easier _ that way,” Eddie says. “I don’t want her to come, but I can’t just outright tell her  _ not _ to do something. I have to like...invent a loophole. It’s the only way she’ll listen to me.” 

Richie’s still just staring at him. Then he does a very complicated routine of looking up at the ceiling, looking down at his hands, and mumbling something. Finally, he leans forward and looks at Eddie very intently. “Eddie, I’m hoping that if this comes from me you’ll take it seriously, because I have zero interpersonal skills and a potential conflict of interest. But that sounds unhealthy as hell.” 

Eddie bristles, because it’s always the same fucking thing, and Eddie is really starting to get sick of it. “Look, I know that you want me to leave her from a hospital bed halfway across the country, but–” 

Richie interrupts him. “Eddie, you know I was talking about you, right? You just told me that you basically lie and manipulate your wife so that she’ll leave you alone. How is that right? And–no, close your mouth,” he points at Eddie, “Because if you give me some bullshit about how I don’t get marriage, you can just shove it up your ass. It sounds to me like you’re both awful for each other. And I say this as someone who fucking hates your wife, but one of you has  _ got  _ to leave the other, because you’re just hurting her, or she’s hurting you.” 

Eddie opens his mouth. “I–”

Richie puts his hands up. “Or, okay. You don’t want  _ your wife _ to visit you in the hospital after a near death experience. Don’t you think that’s fucking weird, man?” 

“That’s just,” Eddie says weakly.

“Don’t start,” Richie says. “Don’t fucking say it, man. I know I’m not exactly the picture of a well adjusted person, but even I know that you should want to see your partner. Heterosexuality is already fucking joke man, you don’t have to be the punchline.” 

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Eddie’s a peculiar blend of angry and confused. 

“Nothing! Nothing. I’m just saying…” Richie scrubs his hands down his face, jostling his glasses. “Eddie, you know this isn’t right. This isn’t just me trying to  _ bros before hoes  _ you or whatever the fuck. I’m just, looking out for you, man.” 

There’s a long beat of silence that stretches on and on, until Eddie says, “Fuck,” and leans back on the pillows. This whole time, and he’s just been– “I thought...Fuck. I have to fucking…” 

“Eloquent,” Richie says drily. 

“Yeah, fuck you too,” Eddie says. His mind is racing, because what’s the protocol on this? How is he going to say,  _ Hey, Myra, long time no see, well, hopefully ever again! My childhood friend that I’m feeling very confused about lately–anyway–he filled me in on how shitty I am for you, so I guess it’s goodbye.  _ “Fuck,” he says again, and turns to Richie. “Is that just something you do? Unregulated marriage counselling?”

“Only if you count my contributions to the divorce rate in California a success,” Richie jokes. At Eddie’s expression, he says “Yeah, I work in the entertainment industry. Half of my friends are comedians. You think their marriages  _ aren’t  _ imploding?” 

“And what, you’re  _ advising _ them?” Eddie’s still kind of shell shocked. 

“No,” Richie says, “I’ve just been in the room more than once to hear the whole, ‘leave if they don’t want to do marriage counselling’ spiel.’” 

Eddie presses his lips into a thin line. “We’ve tried marriage counselling. Myra always hated the counsellors, so it never stuck.” 

Richie drops his head into his hands. His voice sounds muffled and strained when he says, “You gotta just get out of there, man.” 

Eddie crosses his arm across his chest defensively, the closest approximation he has to crossing two arms in full. “Heterosexuality isn’t a joke.” 

Richie laughs awkwardly. “That was just–I guess this is as good a time as any.” He lifts his head. “I’m gay.” 

“Oh,” Eddie says. His mind is suddenly, utterly blank. 

“Yeah,” Richie says, and repeats, “Oh,” drawing it out to an awkward Ohhhhhhh, his mouth a tight circle. 

“I mean, it’s not–” Eddie’s doing that thing that he knows people do, when they find out people close to them are gay. Reeling through countless newly gained childhood memories, comparing them with a newly gained perspective. Muddy water turned clear–or is it clear water turned muddy? It feels wrong, doing it, but it’s like he’s panning for gold, only he doesn’t know what he’s expecting to find. Some indication? Some sign? 

Eddie realizes frantically that he’s paused for too long and clears his throat. “It’s not going to change anything,” he says finally. “You’re still my best friend.” 

He feels like a giant asshole, saying it, but Richie looks visibly relieved. “That’s–I mean, logically, I knew you weren’t gonna like, gay bash me, or something, but that’s good to hear?” 

“How would I gay bash you?” Eddie says, going for levity and not knowing how. “I only have one arm.” 

Richie’s eyes widen. “Way to steal my moment, Eddie. I stopped hoping a long time ago that you’d start making those jokes–” 

“You’re such a liar,” Eddie says. “And don’t expect more.” 

“That’s what your mom said. It only made the last time we saw each other sweeter–” He’s cut off by the pillow Eddie shoves in his face. When he bats it away, his glasses are crooked and he’s grinning, and Eddie thinks,  _ No, it became clearer _ –and even though he doesn’t know what clarity he’s been brought, it sets him at ease all the same. 

  
  


Eddie’s been in the hospital for three weeks and he’s starting to go crazy. 

Well, he’s been going crazy. But after eighteen consecutive days of bedrest, Dr. Lee clears him to try and start walking. The first time he gets up from the bed, he isn’t certain he even has legs  _ left.  _ Mike steadies him, and the cold linoleum sings against his bare feet. 

He’s started physical therapy to attempt to rebuild the muscle and motor control he’s lost in, well, his entire body. Mostly he’s strengthening his core again. By some grace of a higher power, Eddie’s legs emerged virtually unscathed, so it isn’t long before he’s able to make trips up and down the hallway, two hospital gowns tied around himself for modesty. Since he can move to the bathroom now, they’ve also finally allowed him to wear boxers again. Thank god. 

Richie’s walking beside him on one of these trips, hands in his pockets, whistling the Ducktales theme song. He’d slung his jacket on when Eddie asked him to walk with him to the vending machine, like the temperature difference from the room to the hallway is the same as the air outside. 

Richie’d also been there thirty minutes earlier, when Dr. Lee had outlined the rest of Eddie’s recovery. His ribs have mostly recovered. The amputation site of his left shoulder has healed remarkably well, with no complications or infections. There’s still the ugly line of stitches, and the scar isn’t nothing to look at, but she tries to assure him that it’ll fade. He’ll have to wear a brace for a while, for his back. But the most important thing–Eddie’s going to be discharged in one week. 

When they reach the vending machine, Richie makes a big show of Eddie standing there and trying to choose the thing that has the most nutritional value. 

“ _ It really is hard to say,”  _ Richie says in a hushed whisper, doing his British Tennis Announcer Voice, “ _ What he will go for. Mr. Kaspbrak has become a bit of an enigma since we saw him last, wouldn’t you say, Paul? Oh! The Cheez-itz? A bold choice! Yes, I believe _ –” 

“Knock it off,” Eddie says, but he’s not annoyed. Without thinking much more on it, he punches in the number for a Snickers bar. 

“ _ A  _ Snickers,  _ Paul!”  _ Richie mimes a crowd going wild in a whisper scream.  _ “I haven’t seen Ed Kaspbrak eat a Snickers since ‘91! Yes, this is a historic day at Derry Home Hospital!”  _

“If you’re done,” Eddie says drily, as the candy bar clunks into the bottom of the vending machine, “You wanna make yourself useful and get that for me?” 

Richie dutifully crouches to get the candy. “Speaking of being useful,” he says, still hunched over. “What are your plans, after this?” 

Eddie grimaces. “Myra’s not being...the easiest about the divorce,” he admits. “I should probably go see her. I kind of owe it to her.” 

Richie snorts and stands. “Really?” 

Eddie crosses his arm across this chest. “Well, yeah. It’s not exactly fair to just hit her with a divorce. I’ve known her for a long time. There are some things I should explain to her.” 

Richie hands him the Snickers. “What, are you gonna go live with her again?” 

Eddie turns it over in his hand. “I don’t think she’ll try to take both residences with her. Well, maybe, but I assume she’ll stay in Long Island, and I’ll keep living in Manhattan.” 

“Uh huh.” Richie stretches, and Eddie watches his reflection in the glass of the vending machine instead of him. The rows of snacks distort their faces, until they’re just vague outlines. Eddie would give anything in the world for some pajama bottoms. His legs look so stupid, poking out of the hem of his hospital gown. His ankles are ridiculous, tiny against his slippers. He watches the pull of Richie’s shoulders, interrupted by a bright yellow bag of potato chips. “But like...who’s gonna take care of you?” 

Eddie looks sharply at him. “I can take care of myself.” 

Richie puts his hands up. “Of course you can, I just mean. Can you drive right now? What about when you need to get your stitches out? Or your cast off?” 

“I can Uber,” Eddie says, turning away and starting back down the hall. 

Richie half jogs back to his side. “You hate ride shares.” 

Of course he does. He doesn’t know how clean they are. They always have air fresheners that give him a migraine. The drivers all try to talk to him too much. At least taxi drivers are professional. 

But. “I don’t need that from you, Richie. I got it from my wife, and my mom, and I don’t need it from you.” 

Richie’s eyes widen. “I’m not infantilizing you when I say you’re gonna need to help–”

“Okay, but you think I don’t know that?” Eddie interrupts. “My job is spreadsheets. And writing reports.

And I have one hand! I’m gonna have to relearn how to write, and figure out how to drive, probably. And fucking, open candy bars!” He waves the Snickers bar. “I just. I know. Okay, I know, but if I think about all the things I can’t do I’m gonna–lose it, or something.”

“Eddie,” Richie says. “I’m sorry. I was trying to offer to help you. Like,” he swallows, “I’m gonna–I want to stick around and help. If that’s something you’d uh, be okay with.” 

Eddie stops. Richie stops next to him. “What about your tour?” he asks, dumbly.

Richie laughs. “Oh, man, I cancelled those forever ago. Steve is totally pissed, but…” he gestures at Eddie. ‘So…”

They pause. “Okay.” Eddie works his jaw a bit. “I’m sorry too.” He looks up at the ceiling, because he can’t really look at Richie. “And, yeah. I’d be. Okay with that. I guess.”

Richie’s laugh is relieved and breathy. When he opens the door to Eddie’s hospital room, he sweeps his hand for Eddie to pass in front of him. “Jesus, look at us. It’s like fucking Oscar bait.” Richie spreads his hands, making an imaginary marquee in the air between them. “‘ _ Two emotionally stunted, grown ass men, struggle through their feelings for two hours and seventeen minutes. _ ’ Michelle Williams is up for best supporting actress.” 

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Yeah, okay, asshole. Help me with this, will you?” 

Richie does end up helping him open the candy bar. They do it like a wishbone–Eddie takes one corner of the shiny wrapping, and Richie takes another, and together they tear it open. 

  
  


The day before Eddie’s discharged from the hospital, Richie checks out early from the Townhouse to spend the night with him. 

“Oh, please,” Richie says over Eddie’s protests, “You think I don’t nap when you nap? I’ve slept more in this chair than in my bed back at that shithole.” 

“If you snore I will smother you, no qualms,” Eddie warns. Richie just cackles. 

The past week has been a strange whirlwind of goodbyes. The last time they did this, they were in the throes of adolescence–unable to control where they were going and when. There was also the underlying feeling that no matter how much they would miss each other, the promise of a life outside of Derry, albeit lonely, was sometimes preferable to one in it, surrounded by friends. 

But they don’t have to make that choice, this time. Eddie’s never felt what he feels when he gingerly hugs each of the Losers goodbye–like he’s sad to see them go, but he’ll be truly happy to find them again. And soon. Bev squeezes his hand before she and Ben leave. Saying goodbye to Mike is strangely the hardest–of the six of them that are left, he and Eddie were the last to leave Derry, 

Falling asleep with Richie in the room is strange but not unwelcome. To his credit, Richie falls asleep soon after they turn the TV off. The hum of the heater kicking on and off keeps Eddie up past midnight, and he listens to Richie snore lightly, head tipped back, before drifting off himself. 

He wakes up a few hours later to a sharp intake of breath. He’s only dimly aware of his surroundings before Richie is surging forward, hands fumbling, and presses his hand to the center of Eddie’s chest, just under his sternum. 

“Richie,” Eddie whispers in the dark, heart hammering, “What are you…?” 

Richie only exhales shakily, and then sags against Eddie, pressing his forehead against the back of his hand. His shoulders are shaking, and Edddie realizes with alarm that he’s crying again. At this point, he’s seen Richie cry more than he’d ever have liked to, but not like this, and not in the middle of the night. 

“Richie,” Eddie whispers again. His hand hovers undretantly for a second, before he awkwardly pets Richie’s shoulder. “What’s wrong?” 

“I had to make sure you were okay,” Richie says, muffled against the front of Eddie’s hospital gown. “That you weren’t…” 

Realization dawns on Eddie like cold water. The back of his neck prickles. “Rich,” he says, “Is this about your dream?” 

Richie stills against him, and then he pulls back. Without his glasses, his eyes are huge in the darkness. He’s never been a pretty crier, and Eddide can see color, high in his cheeks and around his eyes. Tears cling to his stubby eyelashes, clumping them together. “It’s not,” he says wetly, “It’s not something you should know about.” 

Eddie pets his arm, still resting next to Eddie. He’s never been good with upset children or animals, and in this state Richie seems like he’s the same kind of vulnerable–young and fragile and ready to bolt. Eddie doesn’t know if his touch is comforting, but Richie isn’t pulling away. “You can tell me,” Eddie says, even though he’s not sure he should know either. “It’s not gonna change anything, I’m still here.” 

Richie shakes his head, but he says, “You  _ died,  _ Eddie.” 

Eddie’s hand stills on Richie’s arm. “Richie...” 

“Not like...it was different.” Richie touches Eddie’s chest lightly with his fingertips, where he’d placed his hand earlier. Eddie feels his heart thrum in response. The ice water in his chest is warmed where Richie touches him. “Here.” 

Eddie knows, without a shadow of a doubt that if things had gone down that way, he wouldn’t have survived. He’s not going to press Richie for details, but whatever power that had maybe revived him this time around probably wouldn’t have been able to do the same trick in that version of events.

Richie’s face crumples and he says, “I couldn’t save you. I could have, maybe, and I didn’t.” 

“Richie,” Eddie tries. He wets his lips. “Richie, that was just a dream. It wasn’t  _ real. _ ” 

“Wasn’t it?” Richie scrubs at his eyes, but it doesn’t look like he’s going to stop crying anytime soon. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up, I shouldn’t be fucking– _ crying _ .” 

“Rich.” Eddie tugs at Richie’s wrist, but gives up when Richie resolutely won’t let him pull them away from his face. “Richie. There was nothing you could have done. You were literally in a trance.” 

“Yeah,” Richie says. He curls in on himself further. His shoulders are so broad. They’re so broad, and they’re shaking, and Richie has never looked smaller. Eddie’s ribs twinge when he leans forward. His cast is still a dead weight around his arm, and his hand rests heavy on Richie’s shoulder. 

“It was horrible, Eddie,” Richie says wetly. “When I woke up I didn’t know where I was, and you were just–” 

Eddie remembers this part of the story. “I was scared, too,” he admits. And he was. The whole time he was down there, he forgot to be afraid for himself, and he was just afraid for Richie. Afraid when he was in the deadlights; afraid when he left Eddie to finish Pennywise off. Afraid that Richie wouldn’t know that Eddie had died thinking of him, and worrying about him, and hoping that he would come back. 

Something catches in Eddie’s throat, thick and choking. It’s not Richie’s fault that Eddie couldn’t hold on longer. 

Richie yields easily when Eddie pulls him to his chest. He doesn’t tell Eddie to stop when he pets Richie’s hair. And he doesn’t say anything when Eddie cries too, like he hasn’t since he was a boy. They didn’t cry like this after they defeated Pennywise for the first time, Eddie thinks, because they’d had to just go on with life. Things hadn’t really changed at all, the first time, except maybe the way they felt about each other. But now they’re at a standstill, and Eddie wants to hold Richie until they both stop falling apart. 

Eventually though, Richie pulls away, leaving a wet spot on the front of Eddie’s hospital gown, Eddie misses his warmth. “I’m sorry for telling you that,” he says, wiping at his nose. “I shouldn’t have–the others–they thought maybe I shouldn’t be here, until after you woke up. Because I was such a mess. I wouldn’t stop crying. But then I  _ was  _ there when you woke up, and it was like–” he stops. “I shouldn’t–you don’t have to know that. I’m sorry.” 

Eddie pulls his hand back from Richie’s neck because he thinks maybe he should. “I’m glad you were here,” he admits. “I didn’t know what had happened to you, but seeing you again…” 

Richie looks down at his lap and doesn’t say anything. Eddie worries that he’s gone too far. One of these days he’s going to let slip just how much Richie means to him, and it’s going to scare him away. If he hasn’t already. 

“Jesus, it’s late,” Richie says instead of responding to that. Eddie glances at the bedside clock. It’s almost three in the morning. 

Eddie swallows. “This bed is tiny, but you could just…” 

Richie looks at the bed, and then at Eddie. His expression is unreadable. “If you think you'll fit,” Eddie says quickly. To give Richie an easy out, if anything. 

“You’re so tiny, I’m sure we’ll make it work,” Richie says, but he doesn’t sound as confident as he usually does. 

It’s awkward at first. Eddie shifts over, but his cast is pressed in between them. They rearrange a tangle of seven limbs, until Richie whispers “This okay?” and Eddie nods, and they end up with Richie’s arm under Eddie’s head. 

Eddie has never been as aware of someone else's breathing as he is now, lying here in the dark with Richie. He lies awake for a bit, heart racing at first and then evening out to a slow, content beat in his chest. Richie falls asleep easily, like a child after crying himself out, and Eddie leans his head against the side of his chest. He hears Richie’s heart, slow and steady, and with each rise and fall of his chest, he feels something inside of him ebbing away, clearer and clearer, until there's nothing left but light and a sweet, dreamless sleep.

  
  


In the morning Richie’s side of the bed is empty and there’s a text from him on Eddie’s new phone.  _ Out for Dunkin, be back soon. _

Eddie steadies his nerves by double and triple checking that he has everything he needs. His luggage has been whittled down to one suitcase. He’d left his duffle full of medicine at Mikes, and most everything else is just dead weight. 

He sorts through rows of folded shirts that he never wore once in Derry, and tries not to think in circles about Richie. What was he thinking, when he packed all of this? He sits, crouched on the floor by his suitcase, and thinks anxiously about the very real possibility that Richie is going to move in with him. Or the other very real possibility: that Richie will look at him strangely if Eddie references them living together. Maybe Richie only meant that he’d stay for a month, long enough for Eddie to get his suits retailored, and then head west again. 

Here’s what Eddie knows: that Richie is gay, but that that doesn’t mean anything. That Eddie is not as straight as he thought, which might mean something. That when Richie had whispered in the dark last night, close to the shell of Eddie’s ear, he’d hoped that Richie hadn’t felt the full body shudder that gripped him, and went all the way down to his heels. That if Richie  _ wanted  _ to live with Eddie, Eddie would want him to stay, for as long as he could hold on. 

He’s just finished zipping up his suitcase for the third time when he hears a car horn from the parking lot outside. He pulls back the blinds to see Richie, parked below the window, with a red convertible that’s definitely not  _ his  _ convertible. 

“No,” Eddie says, when he’s downstairs and with his suitcase. “Absolutely not. That thing is a death trap.” 

“It’s not a deathtrap, it’s a Mazda,” Richie says, grinning.

“It’s a convertible,” Eddie says. “A twenty-six year old convertible.” 

“Yeah, and? The Mustang was a convertible.” Richie moves around to open the passenger door for Eddie. “Hop in!”

“I didn’t want to drive in the Mustang either. I was only gonna do that as a last ditch scenario.” Then he got stabbed, instead. “But at least it’s fucking insured. Where is it, anyway?” 

“I gave it to Mike,” Richie says, gleefully. “He’s in Arizona right now.”

“This can’t be happening,” Eddie mutters, surveying the car. It is indeed a 1990 Miata. It can’t be worth more than two grand. Eddie will be seriously surprised if Richie has done more than gotten the oil changed. “You know this goes against everything my job stands for?” 

“Stuffy assholes?” Richie slides into the front seat. 

“Please tell me there’s trunk space.”

Richie cackles at Eddie’s acquiescence. “Lemme…” He gropes under the dash. After a minute, the trunk pops open. “You might have to ditch a suitcase, though.”

“Are you serious?” Eddie stalks around to the trunk. There’s a tire in it. “You’re joking. Richie, I thought you were joking.” 

Richie twists around in the front seat. “I showed you the listing! On Craigslist!” 

“You did not! This is–wait, this is a  _ Craigslist car _ ?” 

“Nooooo?” Richie tries. When Eddie glares at him, he raises his hands in a pleading gesture. “I thought it would be nice! It’s not so far to New York, right? We can ditch it as soon as we get there!” 

_ We _ , Eddie thinks, and he realizes that he’s not ready to go back. To the apartment, to Myra. To a different life. 

Richie’s staring up at him, one part expectant, one part nervous, so Eddie sighs and gets into the car anyway. 

Richie hands him a Dunkin’ Donuts bag once he gets the car started. Eddie gingerly opens the bag and pulls out a sugar donut. He eats as they drive through Derry. They’re both quiet with the shared knowledge that they will never come back here again. Richie glances at him once, in the mirror, and smiles at the fastidious way Eddie’s eating his donut, wrapped carefully in a napkin. Eddie, cheeks warm, looks out the window at the passing trees. 

It’s too cold to keep the hood down, and Eddie’s about to reach for the radio when he sees something that makes him pause. 

“Hey,” he says, “Can we stop? I want to…” 

He doesn’t know how to finish the sentence, but Richie pulls over, anyway, and parks the car. They sit in silence for a moment, and then they get out. 

The Kissing Bridge. It’s been repainted since they were kids, but it still looks the same. The wooden planks are solid under their feet, and Eddie is struck by another one of those memories–thundering across as kids, sneakers against the worn wood. They always ran through the covered section of the bridge if they had to cross, because it was dark. There was no telling what would be hiding in the shadows. 

Richie’s rummaging for something in his pocket, and Eddie says, “If you smoke around me–” 

“Oh,” Richie says, pulling his hand out of his pocket.. “No, I. Quit.” 

And yeah, Eddie knows that, he realizes. Because he hasn’t smelled smoke on Richie, this whole time. He used to, but he doesn’t now, and it’s just more information to rewrite over the Richie he once knew. Because the Richie he’s got–he’s the one that’s right in front of him, and Eddie wants to know  _ that  _ one. 

They both lean against the railing, and the Barrens are still stretched out before them. Fall is turning the leaves, brilliant orange and red. Eddie can almost hear their childhood voices, drifting up from the Kenduskeag.

“We never played there again, did we?” Richie’s looking down the bridge, gaze fixed on something in the near distance. 

“I don’t think so,” Edddie says, gazing down at the changing leaves. “Not like we used to anyway.” A breeze picks up, and he pulls his jacket closed as best as he can. “That whole day, it was like I knew. That we would never come back here. Well,” he grimaces at Richie a little, but Richie doesn’t see, face still turned away.. “Not like that, I guess.”

That day, before they stood in that circle and made a promise, there had been a finality to the way they had played. They’d still go swimming in the quarry for summers to come, but even their clubhouse lost its magic after that year. It became just a hole in the ground, eventually. Not to be discovered for twenty seven years. 

“You were right,” Richie murmurs. “We weren’t ever all together again. Even now, ‘cause Stan’s…” He doesn’t have to finish his sentence, because they all know. Nothing’s going to be like it ever was. Something came together that summer, and something broke too. 

“Eddie,” Richie says, suddenly, turning back to him. They’re closer than Eddie thought, but he doesn’t move back. “I have to show you something. Can I…?”

“If this is a dick joke…” Eddie mutters, but stops when he sees the look in Richie’s eyes. Pleading and afraid. So he just nods mutely. 

Richie takes a deep breath. And then–he takes Eddie by the wrist. His hand is warm through Eddie’s hoodie. Eddie swallows and allows himself to be led, down the bridge, right up to the overhang. Richie stops there, and looks at Eddie, once, quick, before letting go of Eddie’s arm. 

“Okay, so I wasn’t going to tell you this,” Richie starts, and Eddie feels his heart start to hammer. “But...when you were–” He stops abruptly, presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. Eddie reaches for him, but Richie removes them just as fast and shakes them out. “Let me start over,” he says, still not looking at Eddie. 

“Okay, so when we were...when I got here, you know, after Mike called us, I was like, I don’t fucking get this, but I was happy. Fucking terrified, you know, but really, really...happy.” He takes a deep breath. “And it was weird, you know? When Mike called, I remembered everyone, I remembered you, and your name and everything. And it was like,” he bites his lip and looks at Eddie, once, quick. “It was like okay, so I used to….well, my feelings about you were...uh, complicated. But I thought, this won’t be a huge deal, I’ll just….” he gestures vaguely with a hand. “But then, I actually got here. And you know, I saw Bev and Ben, and it was like, okay, I love these people! I’m happy to see them! Even though they’re–and I’m, you know.” Richie huffs a laugh. 

Eddie doesn't know where Richie’s going with this, and maybe Richie senses this, because he says, “I’m rambling. But I…Okay, so I went into the restaurant and I saw  _ you,  _ and it was like. Like, I thought it was complicated, but it’s actually so fucking simple, and that’s what’s  _ really  _ fucking scary, you know.”

“Rich,” Eddie says, because he’s afraid that if he doesn’t say it now, he’s going to lose it again. It’ll slip away, like last time, and he can’t stand the thought of it going when it’s right in front of him. “Richie, look at me.”

And Richie does, and Eddie’s heart is hammering, but no one’s dying this time.

And Eddie says, “The whole time I was dying–the whole time, I was dying, I knew there was something I had to say to you. And I couldn’t think of what it was, but it was like I knew. I  _ knew, _ ” he says, taking a deep shuddering breath. “It was the last thing I was thinking of. And I was trying, you know, I was trying, but I didn’t  _ know _ . Only now I do, and it’s–Richie, it’s okay if you don’t, but I wanted to tell you then that I love you, so I have to tell you now.” He presses the knuckles of his right hand to his lips, to stop some part of himself from shaking. “And–and I’m sorry if you don’t want to know, or if it makes it weird, but I owe it to myself because it was the last thing I wanted to do.” 

Richie stares at him. Richie says, “Eddie.” He says, “Eddie. Didn’t you hear anything I said?” His hands are shaky and he lifts them to frame Eddie’s face, pulls Eddie’s hand away. Eddie’s thoughts race, and then Richie’s skin is on his, and curiously, they fade away. 

Richie says, “Weren’t you listening?” And then he kisses him.

And the thing is, Eddie wasn’t listening, the whole time they’ve been here. He wasn’t listening when Richie stayed with him, and he wasn’t listening when Richie offered to take care of him. Richie’s been  _ telling  _ him, and Eddie hasn’t been listening. 

And–Eddie hasn’t been listening to himself, either. Wasn’t listening when Richie looked at him down in the cistern. Wasn’t listening when Richie wrapped his hand around Eddie’s, blunt fingertips rough against his skin, back at the Jade of the Orient. Wasn’t listening when he was laying there, ebbing away, leaving behind all of the bullshit that didn’t matter, until the only thing left was Richie right in front of him. The way Eddie felt about him shining like gold at the bottom of the ocean, cleared of the detritus of the past thirty years.. 

Eddie wasn’t listening when Richie banged that gong, weeks ago. He had ignored the part of him that said  _ It’s Richie, it’s him again, and you didn’t know he was missing, but now that he’s here, you can’t let him go. Not again.  _

He’s not ignoring it now. He’s not ignoring the way Richie sighs into him, cradles his face. Edddie steadies himself with his hand on Richie’s waist, under his leather jacket. He’s warm though his t-shirt. A breeze picks up, and Eddie feels him shiver; pulls him closer. 

When they break apart, Richie’s looking at Eddie like he’s never been allowed to before. Eddie buries his face in Richie’s chest, and Richie’s arms find their way around him, hesitant at first, and then all encompassing and firm. 

“What were you gonna show me,” Eddie murmurs into Richie’s t-shirt. He feels rather than hears the low rumble of Richie’s chuckle, and then he pulls him away. 

“Oh, it’s so dumb,” Richie says, “But I…” And then Eddie sees it, traced on the bridge, right by Richie’s leg.  _ R + E.  _

“Is that…” he says, and Richie twists around to look. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Remember the day I brought you that stupid toy?” 

“When I broke my arm,” Eddie says slowly. “I thought you forgot about that.” 

“I’m surprised you remembered,” Richie says. “But yeah I had a...pretty shitty day, before I visited you. I did this, a couple of hours before I came over.” 

Eddie untangles himself from Richie’s arm and crouches down to trace the letters. He expects them to be faded, but the edges of them are fresh against the pad of his thumb. Richie clears his throat. “Yeah, I uh, came back and re-carved them. Which is actually really weird, to be telling you about.” 

Eddie shakes his head. “I’m sorry I didn’t let you in, that day.” The words stick in his throat. 

Richie drops into a crouch beside him. “Nah,” he says. “Your mom woulda killed me. You didn’t want me to get hurt.” 

Eddie shrugs. It’s true, but he misses every lost minute of time he could have spent with Richie when they were young. 

But he’s reminded, when Richie wraps an arm around his shoulders, that it’s not the eighties anymore. Or even the nineties. They have time, now. More than Eddie knows what to do with, but when Richie says, “You wanna blow this joint?” he nods and knows that he’s going to spend it loving him, all encompassing and far away from Derry. 

“Richie,” Eddie says, once they’re seated back in the Miata, “I’m not ready to go back to New York.” Richie looks at him, and Eddie says quickly, “And I’m not driving in this thing all the way to LA.” 

“Oh, no, it would definitely die in Toledo,” Richie says. 

“I don’t hate it,” Eddie allows. 

Richie grins at him. “Yeah?” He drums his hands on the steering wheel, and hums through a smile. “Well….do you want to go somewhere else?” 

Eddie glances around them, like the answer is somewhere in the cracked leather of the upholstery. “Where?”

Richie shrugs. “Nature is supposed to be...good, this time of year.” 

Eddie raises an eyebrow. “Nature? You want us to go camping?” 

Richie grins. “I was thinking more like….glamping? Or just a straight up cabin? You probably have a boner for leaving Airbnb reviews, right? Wanna rustle up something in upstate New York?” 

“I don’t stay in Airbnbs, they’re not clean,” Eddie says, already pulling his phone out to download the app. “Hotels are bad enough, but at least I can get a different room if I don’t like the one they put me in.” 

“You’re so high maintenance,” Richie says cheerfully. 

“You don’t know the half of it,” Eddie mutters, scrolling through listings. 

“I think I do,” Richie says, leaning in to peck Eddie, right where his scar is. Eddie bites the inside of his cheek, but he can’t help but smile as Richie turns the engine back on. And then they drive away, the Kissing Bridge disappearing under their tires, and then out the back window. Eddie’s not afraid, because this time, he knows for sure that he’s not leaving home. Richie’s right next to him, and Eddie’s able to say that this time he really isn’t coming back. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I've been 90% done with the book for about three months, and finally got around to finishing it a few days ago. While my feelings on the book are mixed (to put it lightly lol) I actually prefer Eddie's death scene in the book and wanted to do something with it. Weirdly enough it's gayer?? (Although for the record my opinion of Andy Muschietti has really shot up since reading the book. Stephen King do not interact) 
> 
> Title is from Hallelujah by HAIM. The year isn't necessarily correct but give the song a listen! 
> 
> Let me know what you think! I'm not planning on writing their cabin adventures, but nothing goes according to plan so who knows.


End file.
